The Muggle Wandmaker
by Farewells
Summary: The adopted son of the Grand-Wandmaker was not of pure-blood, but a lowly Muggle-born, an orphan without the ability to see magic itself. Yet as the growing tensions between the oldest pure-blooded families mount towards an inevitable war that will surely tear Britain asunder, Harry Ollivander, born of the lowest caste, might be the only person that stands in their way. [AU]
1. Chapter 1

**A/n:** An idea I've been working on. It's mostly in an [AU] setting, but retains most of the original cast and characters.

In this story, schools play a more important role, as they're not just institutes of learning, but also parts of the country's military might. For example, Hogwarts and Durmstrang would be two opposing factions, with tensed treaties and on the brink of an erupting war.

Magic works differently in my story, in such a way only mixed and pure-bloods are allowed into such institutions, as Muggle-borns lack the ability to naturally see and grasp "magic." (More about magic / reasons for no muggle-borns in future chapters.)

Story mostly revolves around Harry's life in Hogwarts, the sort of people that he would meet / come across, the challenges that he would need to overcome. There would be romance of course, but not in the early stages of the story.

 **.**

* * *

 **.**

 **.**

 **Chapter: 1**

The gathering clouds above Diagon Alley were redolent of a night long passed, the darkening skies a solemn warning of the approaching storm. Garrick Ollivander looked up from beyond mountains of dusty parchments as flashes of lightning soon accompanied the soft platters of rain. His attention was momentarily diverted from his work, as pale eyes focused tiredly onto the trails of seeping rainwater running mockingly down the walls, opposite of where he sat.

While his little store was once a spectacular establishment, leaky ceilings and rotten floorboards soon undid most of his illusive fantasies of better days, condemning him in acquiescence to its old and dilapidated state. In a way, it was much akin to the elderly Wandmaker himself, a relic of gloriousness long passed, yet for some foolish notion or another, was unwilling in taking his final rest.

It wasn't that he kept the store in neglect, in fact, being widely recognized as the premiere Wandmaker in the whole of Britain, and with the growing influx of students enrolling in Hogwarts each year, business couldn't have been better.

But like the old man's tired and aging body, there were some things that even Garrick Ollivander could not prevent. The old man pulled himself up onto his feet, as trembling hands grabbed onto the edge of his table for balance; Garrick Ollivander could have sworn he heard the protesting grumbles of his weary bones.

Carefully navigating his way across the dozens of display cases and hundreds of books that made up the ground level of his eternally chaotic store, he grabbed onto a dirtied rag that hung from an overfilled bookcase, pressing the tiny fabric against the seemingly unending streams of water. His makeshift dam was a valiant effort, yet ultimately proven futile, as droplets of intruding rainwater continued to fall from the cracks in the ceiling above.

Taking a small step towards his left and mentally measuring the distance, he lightly nudged onto the side of an unused cooking pot, joining the dozens of others that were already in place as it slid directly below a visible cascade of falling rainwater. Sighing softly at the state of his store, a flash of sudden lightning briefly lit up the outside cobblestone streets, and as Garrick Ollivander looked out from behind his dirtied store window, insistent memories emerged like unfaltering stars upon a darkened sky, unyielding vividness upon a canvas of black.

He remembered, a night very much like this, was when he first came upon the young muggle boy and his broken wand.

 **.**

* * *

 **.**

 **.**

 ** _10 years ago…_**

Garrick Ollivander knew that the clouds above were insentient; an inanimate course of nature that bore no ill will towards his particular establishment, yet the torrential rains and unrelenting winds that it brought forth, seemed almost unwavering in their efforts, adamant in running his business to the ground.

There was little he despised more than the monsoon season, and it wasn't just the ache in his knees that came along with the first signs of rain. Between flooded basements and boxes of dampened wand wood, he was unable to serve any visiting customers, if he even had any in such demented weather.

The old Wandmaker was hunched over a recent shipment of Unicorn hair, carefully inspecting each and every strand when a flash of lightning briefly drew his attention; a brilliant illumination of the outside streets as it coincided with a deafening roar of thunder. It caught the lone silhouette of an approaching figure; humanoid and short, resembling much of a dwarf, or a goblin.

Seconds passed before a soft knock came by, the uncertain tapping of hesitant knuckles against wood. Carefully putting aside the expensive box of materials, the old man headed towards the entrance of his store, momentarily exposing himself to the turbulent outside winds as he inched the doors open.

Looking down towards his most recent customer, it was only then he realized that it wasn't one of the usual stocky humanoid creatures. Surprisingly, it was a child, barely of age, with strikingly green eyes that peered out from underneath a headful of dampened hair.

Motioning with his hand and ushering the child into his store, Garrick Ollivander spent no time in shutting out the ghastly weather. Turning back towards the kid, he noticed a stick-like object tightly clasped in his right fist.

At an initial glance, one would have assumed that the boy was holding a broken stick, fallen from an oak tree of some sort.

The elderly Wandmaker however, certainly knew better than the average passer-by. He recognized not just the wand, but of the wand itself. Even at his age, he still clearly remembered the meticulous details of every wand he had ever sold. He remembered the wand that the boy held, but for some reason or another, the name of its owner remained in an obfuscated gloom; clouded shadows of blurred images, unseen through an overcast fog, like the remnants of a powerful mind altering spell, or perhaps, simply the effects of his aging brain, memories lost due to his withering mind; there was no denying how forgetful he had been recently.

Even so, he retained the memories of the wands he sold, each and every last one of them. The memories remained impeccable, parts of him that hopefully remained till his inevitable death. "Ten inches and three quarters." He recited softly from memory, murmuring more to himself than the boy before him. "Willy, swishy, good for…"

His eyes focused onto the young child, "You have familiar eyes."

The little boy immediately lit up at the old man's comment, seemingly forgetting all about his soakingly drenched state. "Do you know my mother?" he asked in-between chattering teeth.

"Mother?" the old man asked the shivering young boy, his eyes a gentle flutter as he allowed his mind to drift into the deeper recesses of his stored memories, yet as hard as he tried, the indistinct images remained just beyond his reach. He couldn't focus, couldn't grasp onto what he sought; they were like distorted echoes, a most interesting thought. "Perhaps," he replied. "But I do not remember."

The boy could not hide his disappointment, a pitiful slump of his tired shoulders, eyes downcast as they focused onto a spot between his shoes.

"But why are you here, child?" the unblinking elder asked. "On such a night no less. Do you wish to catch a cold? Where are your parents?"

Ignoring the old man's questions, the boy instead extended his arm, revealing the snapped wand. "My… um… stick. It broke."

"Stick?"

From the way the boy addressed the wand, Garrick Ollivander was almost certain of his ignorance as to what he actually held. An even more peculiar thought, his night was seemingly turning more interesting by the second.

"I don't know what to call it. But I've seen things like them on display by your store before," the child replied. "I was wondering, Mister… could you fix mine?"

"Let me have a closer look."

The Wandmaker reached towards the broken wand, noticing as he did so the visible ambivalence in the child's features, as though he was unwilling to part with the wand, even for just a few short minutes. The boy was clearly protective of the broken wand, but for reasons Garrick Ollivander could not decipher.

When the child eventually handled the wand over to him with much hesitancy, Garrick Ollivander quickly moved to one of his work tables by the side. He brushed away many of the unopened boxes sitting on his desk, clearing an open space before gently placing the wand in its center, next to a flickering old lamp that softly illuminated its every minute detail.

Reaching for a pair of spectacles that had lenses resembling telescopes, the old man leaned closer towards the wand, meticulously studying every detailed portion. As he did so, his bony fingers lightly grazed across its broken stem, soft caresses that soon followed each nod of his head. When he was eventually complete with his inspection, the bespectacled old man curiously asked the child, "What happened to it?"

"Dudley and his stupid friends." The boy gritted his teeth, apparent frustration and anger in his eyes. "They think that it is funny to take things that do not belong to them."

"Dudley?" the old man asked, "is he that person that…"

"Yes, Dudley Dursley." The body nodded angrily. "Just because he's the biggest boy at the orphanage, he pushes everyone else around. He took my stick when I wouldn't give him my lunch biscuits. He broke it."

"It… It belonged to my mother," the boy stammered, as though reading the most prominent question on the Wandmaker's mind. "The sisters at the orphanage told me that when they found me as a baby by their doorstep, the stick was tucked along inside of my basket."

"I see." Garrick Ollivander looked towards the child with renewed curiosity. If the boy came from an orphanage, he was more than likely to be of Muggle-born. There were no orphanages in the wizarding society; in order to prevent the accidental misuse of magical abilities due to an improper or unguided upbringing, the ministry would immediately take over upon the loss of a parent's child. And until they were of age and deemed fit for reintegration back into the magical society community, all wizarding orphans were technically adopted by and belonged to their respective ministries.

"Mister, can you fix it?" The boy asked hopefully, his question interrupting the old man's thoughts.

"I… I'm afraid not, my dear child." He spoke in a soft apologetic tone. "I have some Spello-tape in the back which I can use to tape your stick back together, but unfortunately, the core is beyond repair."

"Core?" the child curiously asked.

"Yes, the core." The old man explained, "it is what keeps your wan- I mean, stick, together."

The boy was quiet for a long while, before timidly speaking with an unsure voice, "Can you replace it?

He pointed to the box of Unicorn hair by the side of the table, "Isn't that the same material?"

"How did you know?" the old man's curiosity was instantly roused by the child's comment.

"I…" the boy paused, "I… Shouldn't. Y-you might think I'm crazy, like all of the others at the orphanage."

"No, no. Do not worry, my child." Garrick Ollivander smiled warmly as an arm softly squeezed the boy's shoulder, a reassuring touch that mirrored his pale irises. "I have seen many things in my many years, and I have a tendency to believe even the wildest of stories."

"Umm…" the boy took a deep breath, as though needing a moment to prepare or to compose himself, "sometimes, when I'm near the… stick. I… I see things."

"Blurry images, flashes of different colors." The boy tried to explain, but it wasn't something that he could easily put into words. "Like the one you have on display." He pointed towards the dusty display window, "When I concentrate really hard, I can sometimes see…"

"Flames… A lot of flames, of fire." The little boy closed his eyes, a look of concentration crossing his features, "I also see… wings… flying. A bird… on fire."

The old man slowly took off his spectacles, eyes beaming with fascination. "A phoenix."

"A phoe- what?"

"Never mind me." Garrick Ollivander urged the boy to continue, "you were saying about the core?"

"Yes." The little boy looked down towards his broken wand, "sometimes… I can see her."

"Your mother?"

"Yes, but not exactly." The young boy struggled to find the proper description, "Like… like…" He couldn't. He shook his head, trying to think of an example that best resembled his experience. "A picture, stepped on and crunched a hundred times over. I can see her smiling… but not much else."

"I see." Noticing the boy's shivering shoulders, Garrick Ollivander reached to the side of the store, finding an old dusty jacket and pulling it over the child.

Silently thanking the old man, the boy continued, "I don't just see her. I see other things too, the tree which the stick came from; tall and green, with leaves that touch all the way to the ground… It comes from somewhere… cold. I also see… a… a horse, so bright, it hurts my eyes to stare."

He paused again, afraid that the older man would not believe in his words, thinking of him as nothing but another immature child, with fantasies that gone over his head. But instead of the usual cold and dispassionate gaze of the orphanage caretakers, the boy saw warmth, and bewilderment.

It encouraged him to continue. "But… not a horse exactly. I saw something that stuck out from the top of his head… like a … horn?"

"Interesting." Garrick Ollivander whispered, his aging body seemingly renewed by the wonderment before him. A muggle-born child who knew nothing of the wizarding world, yet held such undeveloped affinity for wand-making, an ability most Wandmakers would kill for, a gift so magical, there simply wasn't any other way to describe it.

The old man, in all of his years, did not even come close to what he believed the boy could accomplish.

A Muggle-born no less, truly, a most magical thought.

The Pure-bloods would have found the child's ability most insulting, but Garrick Ollivander cared not for politics and power struggles. His only wish was to continue crafting wands for the young wizards and witches of tomorrow.

"What is your name?" he eventually asked the young child.

"Harry Sir, Harry Potter."

"Harry, I'm old and I'm freezing. How about we warm ourselves up with a steaming cup of hot cocoa by the fireplace?"

He motioned towards the living quarters at the back of his store, "I would love to hear more about the things you've experienced. They are most… enlightening."

 **.**

* * *

 **.**

 **.**

 ** _Present day..._**

There was another powerful flash of lightning, and Garrick Ollivander was abruptly ripped from his decade old memory, forcefully thrown back into the present by the following booms of thunder. A pair of shuffling feet caught his attention, as a pair of green pierced through the darkness behind.

The child from his memories, with the same unkempt hair and mysterious eyes, but older, matured; no longer a child, yet barely an adult.

"What's keeping you up?" The young man asked.

"Do you feel it?" The old man asked as he turned towards the boy, "a tensed gathering… pandemonium of magic, powerful and unbridled beyond comprehension." He touched his palm to the wall, "The forces are gathering, my child. I can feel it straining, even in walls older than I am."

Harry Ollivander chuckled lightly at his adoptive father's usual madman-ramblings, he had gotten used to them in the recent years. "I can't feel magic, father. Don't you remember?"

The old man looked towards his younger companion, his eyes blurring with slight confusion, as though momentarily forgetting who he was talking to.

He blinked, and they slowly focused.

"Ah yes, Harry, my child."

"You should be heading to bed soon," Harry gently pressed his arm against the older man's back, guiding him in the direction of his bedroom. "The Hogwarts school year is starting soon, we're bound to have plenty of customers the next few days. You need your strength, father. Who else is going to amaze all those brilliant young wizards and witches?"

That certainly convinced the old man, and as the two headed back to their sleep, another flash of lightning briefly lit the cobblestone streets, neither one of them noticing the lone figure standing outside of the store; silently observing the unfolding scene, patiently waiting... planning.

Another flash of lightning, and the figure was gone, as though he never existed at all, like the once muddied footprints outside of Ollivander's, lost forever to the heavy downpour of rain.

 **.**

* * *

 **.**

 **.**

A/n: As I am not using a beta, do tell me if there are any noticeable mistakes.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/n:** This chapter is Harry's first encounter with nobility, the youngest daughter of the Greengrass family.

I have not decided on a pairing yet, but it's a call between Daphne, Hermione and Luna. They each have their own arcs, and perhaps, at the very end of the story, we'll leave the decision to a vote (:

 **Hazel** \- _A sensitive wand, hazel often reflects its owner's emotional state, and works best for a master who understands and can manage their own feelings._

As a child born from nobility, she would have been taught at a young age to control her emotions, to mantain an air of composure while in public. Thus, a wand quite fitting.

 **The Sacred Twenty Eight** \- _A list of families complied in the early 30's to 40's that are truly pure blooded._

In my story, the Wizarding Nation is controlled by most of the twenty eight noble families. They are each aligned to different factions, different schools. They hold high positions in the ministry, and dictate most of the events that would happen in this story.

 **.**

* * *

 **.**

 **.**

 **Chapter: 2**

 ** _7 years ago..._**

The little chime by the store's entrance rang in a merrily tune, greeting the arrival of its two newest customers. An older male, considerably well-dressed and with a pair of impatient eyes, and a little girl, dressed warmly for the winter, with hair that was of such paleness, it resembled the snow that coated the outside streets.

The two of them stepped into the store with a degree of varying contrast, the father was in an irritated mood; there were recent events taking place that had the Ministry in a worrying manner, and the downpour of snow, regardless of its stark beauty, only sought to turn him grumpier.

The little girl however, was in something that resembled much awe, her eyes widening as she took in the variety of items on display in the store. If she could, she would have ran towards the many display cases, planting her face into each dirtied glass in order to get a better look at the dozens of wands that stood proudly by.

Inwardly, she pranced excitedly, but she knew it wasn't the proper way to behave in public, so she kept her thoughts to herself.

The little girl remembered all of the lessons that her mother had taught, and as the youngest daughter of the prestigious Greengrass family, she knew she had to remain prim and proper in the eyes of the public. So she remained her composed self, regardless of how much she brimmed with excitement on the inside.

She stood quietly behind her father, holding onto his flowing robes, trying to hide the excitement that flushed across her little features. She followed her father as they headed over to the store's counter, the older man grumpily voicing his impatience as they waited for the store's owner to show.

Mr. Greengrass was a formidable man, with powerful connections across the Wizarding Nation's twenty eight noble families. He held a prominent seat in the Ministry, and was known for his stern and rigid views, his no-nonsense attitude. The man moved without posture, everyone knew of the influence he held over the Wizarding Nations of Britain.

He remembered clearly the last time he had visited this exact store, almost more than half a century ago. It looked almost the same from his memories, though slightly older and greying, much akin to the owner himself.

He recalled his own wide-eyed grin, one that he knew perfectly mirrored the smile that his daughter was trying to hide. He was a modest young boy that day, barely ten years of age when his father brought him to Ollivander's to purchase his very first wand. And now, in the blink of an eye, it was his turn to introduce his daughter to this store, and in the years to come, it'll be her turn to do the same.

Mr. Greengrass couldn't have been any prouder when his daughter received the invitation to attend Hogwarts, like he did all those years ago, as did his father, and the generations of Greengrass before them. Bringing his daughter to purchase her first wand, he should have been overwhelmed with joy, but amidst the horrible weather, there were certain things that still nagged persistently at the back of his mind, particularly the House of Gaunt, and all those that stood behind it.

The descendants of Salazar Slytherin, members of the noble house that belonged in the Twenty Eight. Along with the rest, they were granted a seat on the Ministry's high council due to their noble bloodline, but members of that particular house were never ones for being actively involved in the Nation's diplomacy and politics. They were like flickering shadows in the background of scandals and corruption, always in proximity, but their links and ties to those involved, never proven.

The House of Gaunt was always in the background, watching silently, plotting.

That was until now.

A week ago, they asked for the gathering of the high council, the attendance of all those in the Twenty Eight. It was a questionable request, with a most suspicious and dubious timing. The tension between the families have grown in the recent years; once a young flame, controlled, but now grown into an unquenchable blaze of hostility. Most were no longer interested in a peaceful resolution, a war was stirring, and in its emergence, the House of Gaunt, like the sharks that they were, could smell it in the air.

He tried to shake the thoughts from his mind, but they remained ever so tenacious, even on such an important day; he was supposed to indulge in his daughter's rite of passage, and not spending his day musing on political gatherings instead.

In less than a month, she would be sent off to Hogwarts, and then he would have all the time in the world to decipher the mysterious intentions of the House of Gaunt.

"Do you see anything you like?" he turned and asked the girl that clung excitedly to his robes.

When she did not reply fast enough, he turned towards the nearest display case and removed the wand, "What about this?" He expertly twirled it between his fingers, testing its weight before dropping it into her palms.

He watched as she stared at the object before turning her eyes to him, they were filled with uncertainty, as though she was lost and had no idea what to do next. She gripped onto the wand, studying it from tip to end, "I don't… know?"

"Okay, what about this?" Placing the wand back into its display case, he reached for another, this wand made with a different material. It was certainly lighter than the previous, perhaps more fitting for a girl her age.

When she reacted with the same hesitancy, he took it back before heading to the next case. But before he could lift the glass to reach for the wand, a voice quietly interrupted his action.

"That is not how you choose a wand."

The older man turned towards the speaker, and came face to face with a young boy. He sat on a table by the side of the store, half obscured by the many shadows. As he hopped off and approached the two, he realized that the boy was around his daughter's age, perhaps even younger.

"And you are?" the father asked.

The boy ignored him completely, walking past and heading towards the girl instead. He took the wand from her palm and returned it to the display case, before turning to her father, "The wand chooses its owner, not the other way round."

The boy's mannerism reminded him of Garrick Ollivander, the quote a familiar one, and at that moment, Mr. Greengrass realized who the boy was.

A few short years ago, there was an article by Rita Seeker that took the Wizarding society by storm. It was of Garrick Ollivander, a member of the Ollivander house, one of the purest of the Twenty Eight and his decision to adopt a child outside of his family's lineage. Not only was he muddying his noble bloodline, the most peculiar thing about the boy he adopted, was that he wasn't even of magic, but a lowly Muggle-born.

A decision most bizarre, its reasons kept as secretive as his Wandmaking ways.

It was only then, Garrick Ollivander made his entrance, quietly slipping through the curtains that led to the back of his store, an old willowy smile at his newest customers.

"Mr. Greengrass," the old man said, "it's been a long while."

"Decades," the man smiled. "You're missed at our family gatherings."

"You know I do not care about such stuff," there was disdain in the old man's voice, but it wasn't directed towards the Greengrass noble. "I am just a simple Wandmaker. I leave the politics and the governing of Britain to people like you."

The old man turned towards the young girl, "What is your name, child?"

"Daphne," she smiled as she extended an arm, "Daphne Greengrass."

He took her offered palm, they felt tiny in his grasp. "How polite," he shook her arm, "your parents have taught you well."

She remembered her lessons and bowed, never once breaking eye contact, "Yes, they have."

Garrick Ollivander smiled at the young girl before throwing her father a disapproving glance. "Mr. Greengrass, I remember spending a whole afternoon with you before deciding on your wand. How can you possibly forget it's not the matter of simply choosing a wand that you like?"

The father sighed in defeat, knowing fully well of Ollivander's eccentricity. "Yes, yes. I know. Your boy told me, the wand chooses its owner, not the other way round."

"I see the two of you have met Harry." The old man motioned for the boy to approach before making introductions, "This here, is Mr. Greengrass and his daughter. I remember it like yesterday, forty-eight years ago when I first served him in purchasing his first wand. As my father did for his even longer before."

"Today," he said to the boy, but it was directed to everyone else in the room, "you'll help Mr. Greengrass' daughter in finding her wand."

Noticing the man's curious gaze, Garrick Ollivander pulled the father aside, sitting him awkwardly onto one of the stools meant for a Goblin's size. "Don't worry, old friend." He clasped a hand over the man's shoulder, "Now, tell me about your recent endeavors, and leave everything else to dear Harry."

 **.**

* * *

 **.**

She followed him into the back of the store and stood patiently aside while he reached for the wide cabinet that housed most of their prized wands. She watched as he tried to reach for a box on one of the higher shelves, a futile attempt despite his best efforts. Being slightly taller than he was, the little girl moved beside him, tip-toeing and managing to tip the box off. He caught the box as it fell, staring at the unopened case before shaking his head and placing it aside.

"What are you doing?" she asked curiously after he placed aside the fifth box, without even opening a single one for her to test the wand's grip.

He did not respond to her question, but approached her instead. She took a step back as he neared, but was unable to prevent him from latching onto her fingers, his eyes a resonating sharpness in the dimly lit room.

She blushed madly, it was the first time she found herself in such close proximity to a boy, and one with such haunting eyes.

"Close your eyes," he said, seemingly undisturbed by how close the two of them were.

She complied, and as the two remained in stillness for the longest time, she was vaguely aware of an emerging sensation, a gentle warmness that while resembled the purity of magic in their presence, it couldn't feel more different.

And as quickly as it came, it left in an instance, replaced by a chilling gust that accompanied the triumphing grin that crossed his lips. Releasing his grasp on her, he headed towards the other side of the cabinet, digging out a dusty case that was long buried underneath a pile of dirtied boxes.

He gently placed the case onto the floor, and took a step back. She approached the case and lifted its cover, revealing the thin wand that laid underneath; beautifully sleek, it was a complete contrast from its molded casing.

She picked up the wand, and twirled it fluidly between her fingertips. It felt natural, without the clumsiness of those that her father had her try before.

She did not understand what he just did, but as she held the wand in her palm, she knew beyond a doubt, that the wand had chosen her, equally as much as he had chosen the wand for her.

 **.**

* * *

 **.**

"Dragon heartstring and hazel wood." Garrick Ollivander smiled as he noticed the wand that the girl held tightly to her chest as they exited from the back of the store. "A wonderful choice."

As the two adults headed to the counter to discuss the wand's payment, Daphne Greengrass shyly approached the young boy, "How did you know which wand to choose?"

"I just do." He replied, knowing fully well she was referring to his ability. "I can't explain it, I just do."

Before she could further satisfy her growing curiosity, her father called to her, telling her that they were leaving.

She turned back towards the boy, "Will I see you in Hogwarts?"

He shook his head, "They don't accept my kind."

"Your kind?"

"Muggles," he replied, "I can't see magic like you can."

She gasped, startled at the surprising revelation before realizing the rude noise that she made. "I'm sorry," she stuttered.

"What for?" he asked nonchalantly.

Before she could reply, her father called out for her once more, this time with a more impatient tone.

"I… think it's sad that you can't attend," she replied hastily, hoping that it wasn't done so in an insulting manner, it surely wasn't what she had intended. She was surprised by his status; being so excited by her acceptance into Hogwarts, she couldn't imagine a path without admittance.

There wasn't more she could say before they left, other than to offer her thanks and farewells.

There remained much on her mind that night, and even in the years passed as Daphne Greengrass grew into a young woman, she would never forget that little boy she met in Ollivanders that day.

 **.**

* * *

 **.**

 **.**

 **A/n:** As I am not using a beta, do tell me if there are any noticeable mistakes.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/n:** Alright, to clear up some confusion. Magic works different in this AU story. In order to cast magic, one must be able to first "see" magic. Pure blooded families are extremely strong because of their connection to magic, thus their innate abilities to better "see" magic. Mix-blooded wizards and witches can "see" magic as well, but not as efficiently as the former. Muggles on the other hand, due to their lack of magical blood, are completely "blind" to magic, thus not being able to learn and cast magic.

Obviously, this is just the basic gist of it. I've got a more in-depth explanation to how magic works in later chapters. I prefer to let the story do the talking instead of simply explaining terms in author's notes. So, bear with me, and you'll get to learn more about how magic works in this world soon. It's a huge thing!

In the meantime, the thing to clear up is that while Harry has the ability to form connections with certain wands, and is able to see what sort of materials they're made with, it is not necessary the same as "seeing" magic. Again, it'll be cleared up in further chapters! There's a lot more to go in-depth, and it'll be explained as the story goes.

 _"Your summary points to a muggle-born squib."_

Reply: Squibs are non-magicals born to at least one magical parent, while muggles are those born to two non-magical parents. In this story, Harry's parents are non-magical, thus he's a muggle (unable to see magic) and adopted by Garrick Ollivander.

 **.**

* * *

 **.**

 **.**

 **Chapter: 3**

When he was a child, Harry was unfamiliar with the concept of adoption. He did not understand why they had to line up in the orphanage's front yard every fortnight in display, while a dozen older visitors clustered around the younger children. He did not understand why they had to clean themselves up before each visit either, especially with how each little speck of dust would result in an afterward spanking by their stern headmistress.

Occasionally, he would be approached by an older couple or two, but none seemed particularly interested in him. He was fine with it, mostly, because the visitors usually cared even less about Dudley Dursley; there was certainly something satisfying about not being dead last. The downside to it however, was the increased intensity of the overweight child's bullying at the end of each missed adoption cycle.

Harry learnt to deal with it, he found certain hiding spots around the orphanage where they couldn't get to him. Between bruised knuckles and scrapped knees, little Harry became quite proficient at avoiding trouble and climbing into spaces he wasn't supposed to be.

That was more than a decade ago, and it was the familiar prickling sensation at the back of his neck that woke him up; like a warning, reminiscent of his escapes from Dudley's grubby fingers all those years back.

Pulling aside the dusty covers, Harry reached blindly for his glasses, almost accidentally knocking over the Cherry wood mug his adoptive father gave him on his seventeenth birthday just two weeks back. There was a thunderstorm outside - a menacing downpour, as though the heavens sought to drown all of Diagon Alley in an unwavering flood.

It was the middle of the night, but all was not quiet. Between the soft platters of rain upon his windowpane and the occasional roar of outside thunder - Harry was soon aware of another's presence inside Ollivander's. The soft creaking of old wood accompanied a wave of uneasiness - unlike anything he had ever felt, a chilliness - that came not from the outside temperature.

A part of him suspected it might be Garrick Ollivander during one of his late night ramblings, but the more rational part of him suspected otherwise. He dropped to the ground, pressing his ear right against the wooden floorboards.

 _Creak… creak…_

It did not sound like the aimlessly wanderings of a senile insomniac, but the careful footsteps of someone who wished to be concealed by the coming of rain.

Harry's room was on the end of the thin corridor connecting the above floor to the ground level.

Garrick Ollivander's, due to the pain in his hip, had moved his room downstairs a few years back.

Harry slowly inched the door apart, slightly cringing at its unoiled hinges. Thankfully, the outside rain masked most of the intruding creaks. He was greeted by long shadows, the gloomy interiors of the building without much outside illumination. The store was magically enhanced to be impenetrable from thieves and intruders, but one could never be too careful – Harry found himself a heavy paperweight, barely a weapon, but still usable nonetheless.

The soft prickling returned, and he pressed an arm against the back of his neck. He could feel the heavy thumping of his heart, and suddenly, there was a loud thud - something felt wrong… extremely wrong. Dozens of signals fired away in his mind, telling him to run, to get as far away as he could. But he remained rooted to the ground, adrenaline surging excitedly through his veins. He took a deep breath, and started in the direction of the floor below.

He crept slowly down the stairs, his grip tightening on his makeshift weapon. He could hear the other presence more clearly now; heavy breathing following the rustling of old parchments. Someone was going through their wares and Harry was quickly aware that it wasn't Garrick Ollivander. He tip-toed towards the commotion, the source coming from their behind storeroom. Stopping at the back of the store, he slowly peeked his head into the storeroom - his eyes widening in surprise at the lone figure within.

Fully cloaked in a dark robe from head to toe, the silent figure stood at the center of the room, studying a piece of unrolled parchment. Harry gulped nervously, taking a step backwards as he started in the direction of his adoptive father's room – Garrick Ollivander would know what to do with the intruder.

But before he could get just a few steps away - he knocked into one of the pots they used to collect leaking rainwater. His breath caught, eyes clamping shut as the sound echoed loudly throughout the store. When he opened his eyes, he looked nervously around the room before noticing him – the cloaked figure, standing opposite of where he was, staring right in his direction.

The cloaked figure raised his wand at Harry – and in that instance, he saw the wand in its entirety.

An ancient yew tree, powerful but tired, hanging weakly over dozens of unmarked graves – he saw the remnants of a casted spell that colored the sky green – then an explosion of flames, a bird rising from reddened ashes.

The images flashed vividly through his mind, yet before he could find a proper grip, a sudden stab of pain erupted across his forehead. He stumbled backwards, clutching onto his scalp - the pain seemingly purging his mind's connection with the cloaked figure's wand.

 _"Avada Kedavra!"_

The store was abruptly illuminated by a sudden flash of green.

 _"Protego horribilis maxima!"_

The space in front of Harry shimmered in brilliance, and the approaching projectile of green smashed violently against an erected shield of red. The barrier shook, but it held – and Harry felt an arm pulling onto his shoulders, sending him stumbling backwards into a pile of fallen boxes.

He looked towards his savior – and Garrick Ollivander stood before him, his own wand raised, his eyes not of a confused old man's, but powerfully ancient, a clarity long lost. The older wizard looked towards Harry, his voice shaking with concern.

"Run, Harry, run!"

The air around them ignited in a blaze of uncontrolled fury, and Harry barely managed to duck out of the way, his arm singed painfully by the unnatural flames of blue. He heard the muttering of further incantations, and the fires retreated, coiling backwards before striking again with renewed intensity - fiercely colliding against Ollivander's defense.

The old man staggered backwards, soon pressing up against the store's wall. His wand grip trembled, and he was faltering with each passing second. The flames surrounded him, but nothing was caught on fire but the older wizard himself. His left arm burst into flames, a painful growl - but it was extinguished almost as quickly as it blazed.

The cloaked figure pushed onward - and Ollivander fell to his knees.

Harry couldn't move. He was shaking and his legs were frozen entirely in place. There was completely nothing he could do in such a situation. Every instinct shouted at him to run, but he couldn't leave the old man behind. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to take a step forward – and his eyes came upon Garrick Ollivanders – they met, and the old man shook his head.

Then, the magical shield completely shattered. The old wizard raised his wand in Harry's direction and muttered something unintelligible, just as the flames dove in his direction, the entire section of the store consumed fiercely in blueish flames.

Garrick Ollivander's wand shot forth from his arm and shot through the store before smashing forcefully onto Harry's chest, knocking him backwards and into an old dusty fireplace.

The cloaked figure emerged from the flames, like a demon from the dark.

He turned towards Harry – just as the tip of Ollivander's wand glowed white, and an emerald green flame rose around him, tucking Harry into its warm embrace. In the next second, there was a poof of ash and the boy was no longer there.

 **.**

* * *

 **.**

It felt like being sucked into a giant whirlpool of flashing colors – he was spinning, the unseen winds ripping unrelentingly at his every extremity – until the world came back into focus. He spun a final time and wooden floors came up from below him. He rolled across the ground before coming to a stop against a dusty tarp. When his eyes eventually adjusted to his dim surroundings, he noticed he was in a shop of some kind. Pulling himself up onto his feet, he ran to the front of the store, recognizing the sign as the broomstick vendor down the street from Ollivander's.

He tried the entrance door – it was locked. He tugged onto the doorknob, but it felt magically charmed, a prevention for late night intruders – except he was trying to leave – not to enter. His chest was thumping painfully, and he stopped for a moment to think. Harry tried to remain optimistic, but it wasn't easy with the situation at hand. The last he saw of Garrick Ollivander – the old man was completely consumed by the unnatural flames.

As his adrenaline subsided, he became aware of how painfully his left arm was hurting. The flesh on his forearm was completely burnt into a reddened pink.

It was then he realized he still tightly gripped the older wizard's wand.

He tapped it against the doorknob – once, twice, nothing happened. He scowled, before lifting a chair and smashing it through the store's window. He exited the building, making carefully sure to avoid the pieces of broken glass - he wore only socks.

The rain seemed to have stopped, and tiny wisps of condensation could be seen leaving the cobblestone path, floating slowly towards the skies above. It was the dead of night and the streets of Diagon Alley were completely empty. Harry ran in the direction of Ollivander's, praying that everything was going to be alright.

He turned the corner that led to the store's entrance – and the night suddenly rained fire.

A sudden explosion consumed the entire store in blazing glory, a deafening boom as flames erupted from the ground up. The cobblestone beneath his feet shook and the shock wave flung him backwards, a wave of blistering heat that slammed him against the behind store. He smashed into the opposite building, his body crashing through glass and wood.

Darkness ebbed at the edge of his vision and the last thing Harry saw, was of Ollivander's completely up in flames.

 **.**

* * *

 **.**

 **.**

 _ **To be continued...**_

 **A/n:** As we can see earlier, Harry's ability to form connection with wands can be brutally rejected by the wand's user too – *IF* they're powerful enough.

He doesn't have the scar in this story – his forehead hurt only because of how abruptly he was torn away from the wand's connection.

I don't have a beta, so do tell me if you spot any mistakes.


End file.
